Room 913
by MoneButterfly
Summary: "Why do you act? Do you enjoy lies?" "Not lies, games." - One man. One woman. One game. Three rules. AU - Criminal Minds/House crossover. You don't need to know the show  House  or Remy to get this story, the main focus is on Hotch.


Room 913

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><p>Summery: "Why do you act? Do you enjoy lies?" "Not lies, games." - One man. One woman. One game. Three rules. AU - Criminal MindsHouse crossover. You don't need to know the show (House) or Remy to get this story, the main focus is on Hotch.

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><p><em>AN – in this story I have used script and setting from the short film "L.A. Suite". I watched it the first time a while ago, but then again last week and I thought the characters fit Hotch and Remy, so I decided to make it into a fic. I know it's AU, but I still hope that the characters doesn't seem to much OOC. _

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><p>You had come home from the case much earlier than expected and were happy to get to spend some extra time with your wife and son. But when you opened the front door you found the house empty. You called Haley's cell multiple times without getting an answer, and decided to call her sister instead. Unlike her sister, Jessica answered after the second ring and was surprised to hear from you. She told you that Haley had dropped ** at her place because the two of you had planned a spontaneous romantic weekend at Dragonfly hotel in Charlottesville. You hang up the phone without saying goodbye and walked silently back out to your car.<p>

You drove the 87 miles to Charlottesville in only an hour and a half even though it should have taken at least fifteenth minutes longer and now you are standing outside of room 913. A 'Do Not Disturb' sign is hanging crooked on the handle and its navy blue letters are staring back at you, challenging you to knock. You want to do just that, but you can't seem to get your left hand to move up and do so. You had suspected that she might be having an affair, but you never got any evidence to prove it.

Footsteps echo through the half darkened hallway and from the corner of your eye you see a woman walking by you, giving you a small smile. Or maybe it's more like a smirk, but you don't really care you just keep looking at the closed door in front of you. The footsteps don't continue to down the hall, instead they stop and a moment later they start walking back to you. She stops by your side and is only standing a few inches from you now. She moves her hand up under her long, slightly curly brown hair and pulls her earphones from her ears and tilts her head slightly to the side. Then she steps even closer to you. "Hello?" she asks.

You want to answer her. Answering her is the polite thing to do, but no words are leaving your mouth.

"Sir," she continues, starting to sound determined to get an answer out of you. "Are you okay?"

There is something about her about the way she asks her question that makes you want to answer her. And not just because it is yet again the polite thing to do, but there's something compassionate in her voice that makes you think her world is just as upside down right now as yours is. So instead of telling her that this is none of her business, you stop her just as she has taking her first steps away from you. "My wife is inside..." She stops and turns back around.  
>"...with her lover." Your voice sounds husky even though you haven't been crying.<p>

She walks the steps back to you that she had just walked away.

"She told her sister she was here with me." You don't know why you are telling her this. The words are just out of your mouth before you have time to think them through. "I don't know who the guy is. Or if it's even a guy."

"I'm sorry," she says, pressing her lips together. Chewing on the inside of her cheek she turns to the side and glances at the door, then she looks at you for a second before turning she glances back at the door. She does this a few more times and you can hear her loudly inhaling and exhaling, like she is waiting for your next move. But you just stand there silently, looking at the door. She straightens up and asks, "Are you gonna knock?"

You clench your jaw. You want to say yes, you want to knock on the door and confront Haley, but you don't move an inch.

"Hm," she hums and then shakes her head. "Maybe you shouldn't"

"Why?" you whisper insecure.

"Hm," she says with a shrug. "Sometimes it's better not to know. And you already look pretty roughed up. This…this could do you in." You are about to tell her that the only thing that could do that was if something happens to Jack, but she starts speaking again. "No, I think that you should come downstairs and have a drink at the bar with me."

You turn your head to look at her for the first time. She stares back at you with piercing blue-green eyes. There is something cat-like about them, it's like they are almost too light, like Emily's are almost too dark. You like her eyes and they make you wanna say yes to her offer, but you don't know if it's a good idea.

"Yeah," she answers and you know she has made the decision for you.

/

You sit with your back to the bar while she gets the drinks. She asked you what you wanted, but you ignore her question and she orders something you have never heard of. She leans over the bar and pulls the glasses towards herself.

913. You stand and walk away quickly, making your way to the hotel lobby and the elevator that will bring you to room 913. This was a bad idea. You should just have knocked on the door and confronted Haley right away. Or maybe you should just drive back home and forget any of this ever happened. You notice she is following you. "Thanks for the drinks, but I've gotta go," you tell her as you start walking quicker, but she catches up with you.

"Why?" she asks loudly, turning to walk backwards in front of you so you are face to face. "You go upstairs, you find out she's made a fool of you, you get divorced, it takes years to recover - depending on how pretty she is, and you end up alone wearing skinny neck ties." She stops in front of you, fiddling with your tie for a moment. "Doesn't sound smart."

You don't look at her, because you know she is right. It doesn't sound smart going up there, because if you do you will just end up fighting with Haley in the room where she is having sex with some other person than you. But taking advice from some drunk stranger doesn't sound very smart either, even though you would rather spend time with this woman than your wife right now, so you decide to follow her back to the bar.

/

"25 years," you tell her after your first drink while she is sipping her second. "We have been together for 25 years and now she goes and does this!"

She puts her glass down and rises her hand up. "Stop," she demands. "Never mind. You're depressing me. I don't wanna be depressed." She sighs and leans closer to you. "Let's play a game," she suggests with an excited smile on her lips.

You believe this might be as bad an idea as having drinks with her in the first place, but her amazing eyes drag you in and you ask, "What kind of game?"

She glances toward the bartender and then replies, "We have a drink. We converse. I touch your arm occasionally to put you at ease." She lets her hand slide from your shoulder to your elbow. "It's like any other night, except there are three very important rules." The smile on her lips widens. "Rule number one: No real names or identities. Rule number two: You have to make me feel good about myself."

You turn your face from hers and can't help but think that she must have low self-esteem to come up with a rule like that, but you don't question her. You glance back at her, as she continues. "Rule number three," she ends, "never break character. So, what's your name?"

You try to come up with a good name, but when nothing comes to mind you instead say, "I don't like games."

"Clearly!" she says just as the words you leave your mouth. "That's why your wife is up in that room fucking some else but you. Women love games; that's what we're good at. Now, what's your name?"

You wonder if you should just leave, but the way she looks at you makes you stay and suddenly you find yourself trying to come up with a good name. For a moment you think of just telling her your real name, but her calling you Aaron is just going to make everything too real. "Thomson," you finally answer.

"Thomson," she repeats with a smile that makes her cat-like eyes shine and she tilts her head to the side. "That's so ordinary. It's like someone just made it up."

"Yeah, what's your name?" you ask her as she picks up her drink.

"Thirteen," she says without missing a beat and takes a small sip, smirking against the glass. "It's probably the number of years you wife has been fucking this other person."

"You're cruel," you tell her, but you don't really mean it and a smile creeps over your lips.

"Moi?" She smirks as she puts her glass down again.

Your usually seriousness suddenly comes back to you. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an actress," Thirteen answers. "What do you do, Thomson?"

You turn your body so it more directly in front of hers. "I'm a photographer. I take photographs," you say, thinking that if you are going to play her game, then you are going to do it right.

False realization spreads across her face along with a very believable smile. It's almost enough to fool you. "I knew I recognized you. You shot me before, do you remember?"

"Yeah, for that magazine."

"That's right," she says and the smile on her face widens as excitement fills her voice. "That magazine!"

"I shot you nude," you reply even though it's so unlike you to say something like that. You wait for her reaction.

"Oooh." She spins a lock of her hair around her right index finger and the gleam in her eyes show you that you haven't scared her away with your previously comment.

"Except for the roller skates and the bustier." You send her a smirk that tells her that you are now also playing this game and amusement fills her face. "You used to fuck this old guy. What was his name?"

"Mick?" Thirteen guesses.

"No, no." You shake your head.

"Bruce?" she tries again, excited to see if she got the name right this time.

"Mm, mm." You deny her answer again not wanting her to guess it just yet. "It was like…like Heraldo."

"Heraldo," Thirteen mumbles as if she is trying to put a face to the name.

"Hispanic guy?" you say like you're trying to help her remember the memory that was never accord. "But not Hispanic. Though he had a long pinky nail"

"Oh." She closes her eyes and turns her face away from you for a moment like she is ashamed of herself. "That was a rough spot. But we all have rough spots, don't we, Thomson?" she asks and her embarrassment is quickly forgotten as she pulls her sunglasses out of her pocket and puts them on you.

The sudden darkness makes you pause before saying, "Yes, we do."

She turns towards the bartender. "Two more, please," she orders and you quickly pull the sunglasses off your face, wondering for a brief moment if you should leave, but like the other times the thought fades away almost as quickly as it came.

/

You follow her out of the bar to the porch with your drink in hand and sink down onto the marble bench by the fountain. The liquid in your glass makes your fingers cold so you place it next to you on the bench as she leans to the side and asks, "So, tell me, Thomson, why photography?"

At first you don't understand her question having forgotten all about your little game, but then you remember and you tell her the reason why you chose this job and not director, which would have fit actress much better. "I'm obsessed with light. I'm obsessed with image. Focus." You smile and then continue, "Composition, money, models and drugs." The last four things you mention aren't really true, but they make you seem more interesting and she looks at you like she believes every word is true. "You see, photographers, they're not the center of attention, but they're always back here, controlling everything. Their jokes are always funny, their stories are always electric, and they are never ever dull." This is true. It's how you some time wish you could be – a little more like Morgan. Everyone thinks you're so dull and serious, even a little cold, but it's not the way you really are. People just never get the chance to see it. "People don't betray photographers, because they have this quality that…they're…they're so…" You can't seem to find the right word.

"Cool," Thirteen says finishing your sentence.

"Yeah, they're cool," you agree and she leans forward and rests her hands on top of yours.

/

"Do you wanna photograph me?" Thirteen asks you as she presses herself back against the room door that is directly next to the one that your wife is in. "You must," she insists and looks at you with a playful smile.

"I don't have a camera," you say as you look at the way she moves against the door and for a moment you forget who is in the room beside you, but only for a moment.

"Rule number four," Thirteen says with a reproaching sigh."Never deny 'I want to be photographed'." She lifts her arms above her head, causing the black tight top she is wearing under her leather jacket to rise up and expose her slim stomach.

You stare at each other, both waiting for the other to do something. You are hesitating, because any minute the door behind you might open and Haley will see you. But why are you worrying about that? You haven't done anything wrong. "Pull your hair back," you tell her and she slowly lowers her arms, gathering her hair in her hands behind her head. You step forward, raise your hand to her face and tilt her chin slight up with your fingers. You study her beautiful face as you turn it from side to side to get a better look at her. You feel her shiver slight when you slowly slide your hand down the side of her face and she bites her lip. "Turn and face to the wall," you tell and grab her arm softly, spinning her around.

You think of Jack and all the times you have played together, of how you sometimes run through the backyard with him pretending some non-existing animal is running after you or how you sometimes sit on the coffee table together pretending it's your pirate ship. Playing pretend isn't a challenge for you, so pulling an invisible camera from your pocket and checking if the zoom and light are okay, isn't heard for you. "Okay, now turn around and look at me."

She turns to the side and a small almost unnoticeable smile creeps upon her lips as she looks at you.

"Good. Now look at me coyly."

She looks down for a second and then back up at you while she moves slightly to the side, running her fingers against the wall slowly.

"Good," you repeat. "Now jealous." The emotions you pick are the first ones that came to mind and you wonder if it may be because you are feeling them yourself.

She clenches her jaw and bows her head, and you notice how an overwhelming darkness falls over her beautiful face. The emotion seems so real that it actually scares you a little, but it doesn't stop you from repeating, "Jealous," hoping to get even more emotions out of her. She moves further back, so her back is now pressed against the wall and her face is half hidden in the shadows.

'Good', you think, but don't tell her out loud. "Now scared."

Her eyes widen as she turns slightly to the side. Her whole face expresses fear, but it doesn't stay like that for long. Her expression changes to a wide grin and she lifts her hands above her head.

"Okay, no, no, no," you say looking up at her from your imaginary camera while shaking your head. "Don't flirt with me."

She chuckles like she can't believe you just said that and then let's her hands fall to the side. "I don't flirt, I'm a professional," Thirteen says indignantly as she spins on her heal and begins walking down the dark hall.

With a sigh you let the imaginary camera vanish from your hands as you let your head hit the door behind you. You push yourself off it again and take a few steps after her, but then stop and turn your head to the right. Room 913. You step closer to the door, and like an hour earlier you just stand there staring at it wanting to knock, but not finding the strength to it. From the corner of your eye you can see that she has also stopped. She glances back at you and then walks back to you. She rests her chin on your shoulder. "Rule number five," she says and you can feel her breath on your throat. "Smell my perfume."

You turn your head to the side, so it's directly in front of hers. Your faces are only a few inches apart and you inhale. The stench of alcohol is overpowering, but you can still smell the faint smell of sunflowers. You don't remember ever smelling a sunflower, but this is how you imagine they smell like. You lean even closer to her, hoping to also get closer to the scent.

"Just my perfume," Thirteen says, taking a step back and then you walk with her in the direction of her hotel room.

/

The mascara and lip gloss she ads to her already make-up covered face aren't necessary at all. She has enough beauty that she doesn't need any of it and you want to tell her, but instead you pick up her Polaroid. You wonder why she has this camera. Could she have planned this? Planned to pick a man up like this? But then you remind yourself that photographer was your choice and not hers.

As she stands in front of the mirror, she pulls up her hair and poses for you. Before you take the picture your eyes lock in the mirror and a smile spreads on her lips. You don't usually take photos. At home Haley does most of the picture taking and at work you usually get Reid or one of the others to do it. But now there is only you to do it and she expects you to take her picture, so you lift the camera to your eyes and take the first one.

You take pictures of her everywhere in the room and you let them fall onto the floor where you stand. With each photo taken she gets more and more creative. At first she was just posing for you standing on the floor or sitting on the bed, but now she is stand on the chair by the window with one leg in the air and a firm grip on the curtain pull. And before that she was lying on the floor between your legs twisting her body from side to side with her legs over her head.

When the camera runs out of pictures the floor is covered in photos of her in every position and on every inch of the small room. You won't be surprised if she looks just perfect in every one of them.

/

You're sitting on the nightstand by the left side of the bed with your back against the wall, your hands folded in your lap and looking into the air.

"You're very good, Thomson," Thirteen says. She is again sitting by the mirror, but this time she isn't applying make-up, instead she is looking at the hundreds of photos you took of her. She has gathered them in a pile and is now going through them. The ones she doesn't like get thrown back to floor. "You are passionate."

You look at her. "Do you know where the word passion comes from?" you ask her tilting your head to the side.

"No, and I don't like my nose in that one," she answers while holding up a photo for you to see, before she throws it back on the floor.

"It comes from the Latin word 'passio'," you inform her, even though it doesn't look like she is listening to what you are saying, "which means to suffer."

"Mm," she says and lets another photo slide to floor.

"So if you say that someone is passionate about something," you pause for a moment, "that means that they're willing to suffer for it." You look to the wall opposite you and think about what you have just told her. "I think that's beautiful."

She points her finger at you without even taking her eyes off the photo in her other hand. "You're breaking rule number three, Thomson," Thirteen says and then looks back at you. "Good angle. And you're boring me." She quickly shows you the picture she is holding, before laying it - and the ones that are lying on her thigh - on the table in front of her.

"Well, obviously, celebrities must have a different tolerance for boredom, because we've been drinking the same alcohol, and listening to the same music, and having the same conversation, yet you're bored and I'm enthralled," you say sounding like, what Haley would called, a wise-**.

She smiles big and looks back at you. "Do you think I'm a celebrity?" she questions and you think you can hear true happiness in her voice, but then she turns back to look at herself in the mirror and what you thought you heard in her voice is now gone. "Well, I mean it's true I am a working actress and I'm about to hire a publicist."

"Why do you act?" You don't know if you meant to ask her the question, but you can't take it back now and you would actually really like to know her answer. "You enjoy lies?"

The confident smile on her lips disappears from her face. "Not lies. Games," Thirteen says in a cold tone and then she just sits silently while staring blankly at herself in the mirror. "Am I prettier than your wife?" she asks you and it almost sounds like she is going to cry.

"Rule number two," you say with a sigh. "Yes."

"I think I'm prettier then she is."

"You have never met her," you point out.

Sadness fills her face and she gets up from the small chair she has been sitting on.

"What's your name?" you ask her, feeling a strong need to comfort her. You do not know where it's coming from – maybe it's the father in you or even the husband.

She lies down on the bottom of her bed, legs bent and one arm tucked under her head while the other rests in front of her, so her hand lies under her chin. "Maybe she's smart," she tells herself. "Some men like that. Clever girls, it's a fetish."

"What's your name?" you ask again.

"Still," she says, like she hasn't even heard your question, "chances are I'm prettier."

You get up and walk the few feet to the bed and then sit sideways behind her. You rest most of your weight on your left elbow and then move your hand over her side. First without touching, but then you let your hand slide over the upper part of her arm and shoulder blade every so lightly.

Closing her eyes Thirteen says, "I don't think you should touch me."

"I'm not touching you, I'm feeling you," you tell her and you can feel her relax under your palm.

"Okay," she whispers, rolling onto her back with her eyes still shut. You lean over her and watch her lips as she says, "Just don't touch me."

"I promise," you tell her and you mean it. You slide the back of your hand along her jaw line and she follows your movement with her head. "What's your name," you ask her yet again and this time you're almost begging her to give you the answer. She is here with you, a real person, with a real name and a real life that is probably just as confusing as your own is. But to start with, you just want to know her name. You close your eyes and lower your face so it's just above hers. Your lips are almost touching.

"Thirteen," she whispers.

You pull back slowly and look down at her. Who is this woman you're lying beside? You have spent hours with her now and you still don't know anything about her, not even her name. Whoever she is, she is broken and you will never be able to help her put the pieces back together, because you haven't even met the real her. You wish you could do something for her, but you know you can't. You stand up from the bed slowly and before you walk of out the room, you stare back at her one last time.

/

You put on your suit jacket as you walk down the dark hall alone and come to a stop outside the door belonging to room 913. You raise your fist to the door and knock.


End file.
